


Chirring Cicadas and Midday Heat

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Angst, Humanstuck, Jealousy, Karkat doing melodramatic things, M/M, Swearing, mentions of cannibalism, sigh, wow this is very original
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-10 07:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4383299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re whizzing down the road towards your final destination, grimacing at the sensation of your internal organs being jostled when you realize.</p>
<p>“I wrote a fanfiction kind of like this once,” you vacantly mutter.</p>
<p>“Dude,” John throws you an incredulous stare, “what?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Your dad is an asshole. There are no ‘if’s, ‘but’s, or ‘yet’s about it. He’s a gnarly, twisted, shit-encrusted asshole.

No sane parental unit sends their kid out to fend for themself in the wilderness in 100 degree weather. Admittedly, there’s less ‘fending’ and more ‘attending a summer camp’ in regard to this trip, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t going to suffer just as much as if it were in a life-or-death situation.

The bus flies over a bump in the scraggly road, and you wince as inertia carries you upwards, then slams you the fuck back down, right onto your tailbone. A collective groan winds its way through the rest of your peers, who are clearly enjoying this ride just as much as you are. You grind your teeth as you shoot a glare towards the bus driver, a scowling man with slicked back hair, an eyepatch, countless scars, and an out-of-place black suit that’s adorned with a spade pin. You don’t know if anyone else is receiving similar vibes when they look at him, but you think he may be an ex-member of some gang. Not that you’re willing to go over and ask. He’d probably answer your question by whipping out a knife and stabbing you in the kidney.

The bus’s wheel dips into a pothole in the pavement, and the rider to the side of you lets out an undignified “shit!” before clasping onto your arm. You let out a sullen sigh. John throws a sheepish smile in your direction but keeps his grip steady on your limb. He’s looking a little green… Oh. You forgot that he tends to get carsick. Great. Yet another shining point in how this road trip is putting the "n" and "o" in “enjoyment.”

You wiggle your captured arm until it’s free and give him a consoling pat on the back, eyes fixed firmly ahead as you try to remain stoic and uncaring. You are the solid, unmoving rock of this friendship. It is you. John knocks his head on your shoulder, acknowledging his thanks in what can only be identified as a unique Egbert-ian form of gratitude. Meaning it’s stupid. Both of you continue to sit in silence, trying to ignore the roiling in the pits of your stomachs as the bus’s momentum doesn’t get any smoother.

You’re whizzing down the road towards your final destination, grimacing at the sensation of your internal organs being jostled when you realize.

“I wrote a fanfiction kind of like this once,” you vacantly mutter.

“Dude,” John throws you an incredulous stare, “what?”

“About all of us heading down to a summer camp-- but I didn’t know you back then, so you’re not in it.” He snorts.

“Did anything exciting happen in it?”

“I’m pretty sure it was like a prepubescent teen’s wildest wet dream. Forbidden romance, hidden treasure, Nepeta mauling a bear,” John barks out a laugh, “and we were all aliens for some unfathomable reason.”

“Woah, what? Aliens?”

“I was thirteen and an idiot when I wrote it,” you clarify.

“Well now you’re sixteen and _still_ an idiot,” he counters teasingly, flashing a dopey grin that sings, ' _I know you won’t hit me, numbnuts_.' You hit him anyways.

He rubs the assaulted spot on the back of his head, still smirking, when you both abruptly crash into the seat in front of you. ' _There has to have been a better way to alert you that you had arrived_ ,' you angrily think as you are forced to agonizingly untangle your limbs one by one from John’s.

“Alright you shits,” Ex-mobman rasps, “We made it. Now grab your stuff and get the hell off the bus!” His glare steadily rolls across the room, fixating on each and every one of the bus’s riders, as if he dares them to see what happens if they intentionally stick around. You have half a mind to kick the shitmonger off the bus so you could grab the wheel and run him over with his own damn torture device.

Begrudgingly, you stand up to haul your duffel bag from its spot on the overhead rack. Well, to be honest, you wait for John to haul it off the rack for you. A portion of your soul weeps in resentment at the fact that you’re too short to reach the rack, yet this is not the first time you’ve experienced aforementioned vertically challenged woes, so you’re resigned to your fate. The only advantage here is that John will happily act as your own personal human pack mule until you step off the vehicle.

Sure enough, once your feet plant themselves on firm ground with a small poof of dust, you hear “Heads up!” before your duffel comes hurtling towards your head. You instinctually bat it to the ground in a flurry of frantic hand motions, puffing up in anger when you notice John cackling from the last few steps of the bus.

“What if I had had something fragile in there, you insufferable prick!?”

“Well, you didn’t! This is a summer camp, not an antique show!” He’s still chuckling, finding amusement from your excessive bristling.

“When we get home I’m going directly to your house to shit on everything you love,” you growl.

“Sure you are, buddy,” John waddles over and wraps his arms around you in an apology hug, using the crown of your head as a rest for his numbskull. You hiss, spit, and slap his arms away, dancing with fury.

“This is not the time and place for public displays of platonic affection!” You snap. He laughs again before walking off, not even looking behind him to see if you’ll follow. He already knows you will. Dick. You crouch to get a hold on your bag, then scurry to his side.

Cicadas are chirring and the midday heat is suffocating, yet John looks unfazed as you trek side by side towards the entrance hall. He catches you staring and beams back momentarily before turning his attention towards the gravel path again.

You’d never tell him out loud, but you’re grateful he had agreed to come with you to this hellhole. Not many campers are lucky enough to have their best friend so willingly throw themselves into this sort of soul-sucking trip. His presence alone made this camp feel less unbearable. Granted, a grand whopping eleven other friends of yours are attending the camp this week as well, but you’re not sure how to feel about them being here. Sometimes their presence proves to be more irritable than beneficial, and you’re not sure how well your patience-meters will be running when you’re going to be stuck plucking bugs and twigs and dirt and pebbles from your nether regions all throughout the week. You’ll just have to wait and pray that none of them will chop off numerous days in your life span by raising your blood pressure to unhealthy levels.

The inside of the hall is already thrumming with energy as you and John finally enter. There are parents giving uncomfortably prolonged hugs to their kids, chaperones scowling at teenagers proving themselves to be immeasurably douchebag-ish from the get-go, and other campers stumbling around looking lost. You give John a glance, asking him where you both should be headed, yet his attention is pointed elsewhere. Following his stare, you find a teenager about your age, wearing sunglasses and a deadpan face.

John’s elbowing you, excitedly turning to explain something before you can ask who the fuck that kid is.

“Okay, okay, I know I didn’t mention it earlier, but I came here with you for a few reasons-- not just ‘cause I love hanging with you and all.” You know he doesn’t mean that in a harmful way but you can hardly hold back the flash of hurt that intended to sneak its way across your features. He seems to notice the sting of his earlier words, because he’s already stumbling to correct himself. “I mean, you’re like one of my best buds! ... _Mi mejor amigo_ ,” you scowl at his terrible accent as he self-consciously snickers at himself, “But actually this camp gave me a chance to meet an online friend too!”

“An… online friend?” You suspiciously repeat. Your eyes trace over the crowd of campers, counselors, and parents. You’re looking for a middle-aged man with a shifty, criminal look and a lack of pigmentation due to no exposure to sunlight. Maybe with a scruffy, poorly-trimmed beard to compliment the basement-dwelling get-up. John snaps his fingers in front of you, looking partially scandalized, partially amused.

“No, he’s not some creepy 40 year-old that’s cyber-searching for a naive kid! I’m not that easy to trick.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” you mumble with a roll of your eyes.

“Anyways,” he draws out the ‘s’, “he’s right over there!” John gestures to the teen you had noticed earlier. Waving excitedly, he calls out, “Hey man!” The kid’s attention snaps in your direction, and he points a finger pistol and pretends to fire it towards your duo before strolling over.

“‘Sup?” he says as he stops by you both, the goddamn epitome of a master conversation-starter.

“‘Sup to you too, dude!” John chimes in response. Wow. This conversation is absolutely enticing. Insightful. Intriguing. You can feel your IQ rocketing through the ceiling as these two blockheads hurl basic morphemes at each other like baboons having a shit-flinging contest.

“Can I get a hug or something?” John rests his pleading eyes on the douchebag, “You’re acting like this isn’t the first time we’ve seen each other in person, you dick!” Your friend playfully punches the other guy on the side and earns himself a laugh, and you can’t help but seethe at how easily John is interacting with someone other than you.

“Yeah man, set phasers to hug-speed. I’m coming in fast,” the blond stretches his arms out, reaching towards John.

“Wait, no! You’re going too fast!” John mockingly whisper-shouts, trying to play along. His arms are spread wide too, now. He lumbers in the dunderfuck’s direction. “We’re gonna crash!”

“Ah shiiiiiiiiiiiiit,” the other boy whisper-shouts back. He and John do their best to quietly fake-scream at each other, their outstretched limbs fiercely wrapping around each other once their chests have bumped. They sway a bit, and you have to hold yourself back from clocking whichever one is making explosion noises right in the face. You pointedly glance around the room and try to let them do their thing, feeling excluded.

“Fuck, we’re both dead now,” internet-asshole states as he pulls away.

“Whatever, it was worth it,” John grins back. You clear your throat, trying to remind him that you’re still existing in this one particular goddamn spot, right by him and the other teen.

“Oh!” He clues in and pulls you in front of his friend.

“Karkat, this is Dave Strider!” Dave flashes a quick wave at you. “And Dave, this is Karkat Vantas!” You reluctantly nod in acknowledgement.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Vantas,” Dave says, already throwing out last names like the usage of first names is decades out of style. Maybe he thinks it makes him sound cool. You’re unconvinced.

“Likewise,” you bluntly fire back. You’re not lying. ‘Dave _this_ ,’ and ‘Dave _that_ ,’ are constant phrases in you and John’s conversations. The boy’s got a serious friendship hard-on for this sunglasses-clad shitwhiffer. It makes you kind of jealous, honestly.

You don’t try to say anything else, and Dave doesn’t either. John claps his hands together.

“Alright! I’m gonna go check in you and me both, Karkat,” you grunt out a ‘thank you,’ “and then we can all go drop our stuff off in our cabin.” Woah, what? You were sharing a cabin with this guy too? “I already filed a request for us to all be together when we were registering, so be prepared for a week-long sleepover!” Fuck. Dave lets out a deadpan ‘hell yeah’ while you shift your weight from foot to foot, already feeling antsy from the prospect of becoming the third wheel in John and Dave’s bromance.

“Hold my stuff,” John hurriedly says as he shoves his bag into your chest. He scurries away and you’re left alone with I’m-So-Chill-My-Dick-Could-Snap-Clean-Off-If-You-Applied-Pressure-And-Twisted-It… That name needs a little more work. He twists his head to stare out a nearby window, obviously bored. You shuffle around and fiddle your thumbs like an angst-riddled househusband waiting for his domestic partner to return from war.

 _'You shouldn’t be bothered by John having other close friends, you selfish fuck_ ,' you think as you get twitchier and twitchier over John’s excessive enthusiasm aimed towards Dave. He doesn’t act that way towards you, does he? You can’t remember him ever dicking around so happily because you were in his presence. ' _Maybe that’s because John’s behavior and attitude in regards to his friendships with other people isn’t a damn contest for you, pisshole!'_  your brain grapples with its own stupidity. This whole internal argument is petty and pointless, but there’s a stubborn part of you that keeps seeing Dave as a threat to you and John’s friendship. For some reason that same portion of you is treating him like he’s Mr. Steal-Your-Girl-- except your “girl” is your best friend and people aren’t fucking possessions to be stolen. Why are you even alluding to that one particular song? It’s gotta be stress. Your stress fluids are off the chart and it’s been less than an hour. This is absolutely fucking stellar. You hate everything. Yourself included.

Hands wrap around John’s bag, and you nearly sock your friend in the face by reflex. Apparently he waltzed right back over while you were zoned out with your thumbs rammed firmly up your ass. John casually flings a T-shirt that smacks you in the face, then falls into your waiting palms. You tilt your head to ask him where he got it. He mouths, “it was free,” before creeping over and proceeding to clap Dave-- who is still lost in his own little world, looking out the window-- as hard as possible on the shoulder.

Dave jolts forward in shock and shouts, “FUCK!” loud enough that you swear it echoes through the room. People halt to stare. Counselors slowly shake their head in distaste. Babies start crying. Dave looks like a deer in headlights, whipping around to stare at a bewildered John. John leaps backwards, a hand smacked over his mouth in surprise at the reaction he had evoked. The tense moment leaves as quickly as it had come. The crowd turns back to mind its own business, the noise resuming to a busy hum.

There’s a low, long snort from John. He doubles over, shaking with amusement. Dave still looks shell-shocked.

“You should’ve seen,” John wheezes, already out of air due to how hard he’s laughing, “your fucking face, Dave.” Dave’s mouth twists into a smile, and soon he’s in the same position, huffing up a storm after laughing his own ass off.

“And that’s how you start summer camp with a fuckin’ bang,” he pants, “I seriously thought you were one of my Bro’s goddamn puppets for a split second, bro. Was gonna whip out a sword right after that badass war cry and make it rain stuffing.” John snorts again.

You stand to the side and look as out-of-place as ever. You have a feeling that this is going to become a common thing.

Seconds, minutes, _hours_ (hell if you know) later, both of the other boys upright themselves, bags dutifully slung over their shoulders. They carelessly wrap one of their arms over each others’ shoulder.

“C’mon, Karkat!” John calls offhandedly as he and Dave begin to stroll to the exit.

As the duo pushes open the door to the entrance hall in a grand, synchronized gesture, you trail behind, showing off your ultimate sulking face for all the world to see. Dave mutters something just out of your earshot, and the chucklefucks burst out laughing again. You desperately try to catch up and make eye contact with John to show your discomfort, but he’s too busy annoyingly guffawing to notice. You all begin your trek to your cabin, stepping back onto the route you had taken earlier, which will later branch out and lead you where you need to be.

Crunching along the gravel path once again, with one more addition in your group, you come to a conclusion.

This week at summer camp is going to be a prime example of the deepest, darkest depths of dejected, lonely hell. And it’s all going to be Strider’s fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> where the hell did the urge to write this come from.... we just don't know.... but it's making it hella difficult to write that OTHER thing that really needs to be updated so dang i'm in trouble
> 
> anyways lo and behold, we've got ourselves a summer camp AU here... whoop.... 
> 
> that mention of a fanfiction karkat wrote? it's p much a reference to summerteen romance but also kind of not really?? i know i'm being confusing but that mention was a quick homage to that monstrosity. it's not going to be making many appearances throughout this fic though, so that's that.
> 
> for the record: there aren't going to be any races towards dating egbert that result in them hooking up or whatever-- both see him as a friend, not a boyfriend (regardless of attitudes in the past). so this is a friend fight, not a love triangle, folks. god knows they suck just as much to be stuck in, though. 
> 
> two more lil notes (i think, i might add more later but idk)  
> -sorry for typos and obvious mistakes, this is unbeta'd and i'm not looking for one so there are gonna be errors  
> -the title here is probably gonna change... it sounds so tacky but i'm at a loss of what else to call this
> 
> thanks so much for reading! C:


	2. Chapter 2

Well, one of you is going to have to change.

And it can’t be you, frankly, because humans don’t have the bullshit properties of an adjustable bed frame… But then again, you’re not too sure this particular bed has those qualities either. God damn it. Why’d you have to get stuck with a top bunk?

It just adds insult to injury considering John had chosen to bunk with Dave over you. You’re doing your best not to flip your shit over this fact, and it’s clear that your efforts aren’t. Really. Doing. Jack. Fucking. Shit.

You glare at a stranger’s bag, resting on the bottom bunk, as if it is the sole source of your unbridled distress. Releasing an aggressive sigh, you haul your torso onto the top bunk, and frantically wiggle your legs for leverage. Clambering aboard your mattress like a blubber-laden seal, it is no small triumph that you manage to NOT kick any passersby in the face. It’s only after you have rolled onto your back, disgustingly close to rubbing your nose against the ceiling when you realize that you forgot to bring your bedsheets up with you. You groan.

“Hey, Egbert,” you call, hopefulness tinging your tone.

“Hey, Karkat,” he calls back after a momentary pause, his voice sounding from the lower portion of the bunk bed to your immediate left.

“I have a favor to ask.”

“Only if it doesn’t involve me stealing something.”

“That was _one_ time-- Okay, wait, no, I’m above your jabs.” If you could see him, you’re positive he’d be rolling his eyes with a dopey smile.

“But do you see that duffle bag by my bunk? Gray, covered in dirt and grassy bullshit after you threw it?”

“Mmhm,” he hums.

“Toss it up here.”

“But I just laid down,” he whines.

“Boohoo, I thought you were the one saying that this place would be great for ‘getting up and on to our feet’ or something,” you argue.

“I’m retracting that statement until later notice,” you hear his mattress creak as he rolls to one side, probably away from the sound of your voice. Douche.

“I’m begging you,” you tiredly drone. Climbing up had really kicked the shit out of you, it’s not like you want to go back for round two quite yet.

“Your pleas will remain unacknowledged,” he mutters.

“What are you, some member of dickwheeze nobility?”

“Yep--”

“Alleyoop,” a third deadpan voice joins in, and you crack your head on the ceiling in surprise as your bag suddenly lands by your side.

“Fu--”

“Vantas, remember what happened last time anyone slung around naughty words here.”

“--ck you. I do what I want,” you spit out rapidly in response. Your skin is already itching, you swear to fuck, Dave’s already managed to condition you into feeling infuriated with the sole sound of his irritable voice as the conditioned stimuli. You scramble onto your stomach and lean over the edge of your bed to glare down at him.

“Real charming, there,” he sighs.

“I try.”

John lets out a loud, dramatic huff from the sidelines. You turn around to put your bed sheets on, and you hear Dave shuffling through the contents of his own luggage. The tasks are performed in awkward, soul-squeezing silence, and you sit back on your haunches to unenthusiastically note that your work is done.

If these last few minutes are any form of indication as to how the following week is expected to go, you might as well intentionally fall from this top bunk right this instant, and pray that the fall miraculously kills you. You experimentally stick a leg over the side of the bed. Then the other. Then, you think, ‘ _to hell with it_ ’ and heave the rest of your body off in one fell swoop. You’re the king of the melodramatics, it is you. This whole decision is utterly moronic, but you either A.) get to enjoy the swift embrace of death, or B.) escape your tall prison. Win-win situation.

Someone yelps “Shit!” as you begin to plummet.

Your ass collides with someone’s open, waiting arms and both you and your supposed savior crumple hard onto the floor. For the second time today, your hit your head, on the metal bed frame this time. The suffocating, accompanying throb takes a moment to wrap itself around your skull, and you let your eyes unfocus, then refocus for a stunned moment before shifting to check on the person whose knee is jabbing into your back.

“If that one time where your parents dropped you on your head as a baby didn’t knock all the smarts out of you, that last fall sure as hell did,” Dave groans, letting his own head gently thunk against the hardwood floor as he lays sprawled out.

“Why did you even try to catch me, nitwit?” You ask, genuinely confused. It’s pretty obvious Dave isn’t your number one fan; if anything, you would have expected him to whip out the popcorn and root for Team Gravity.

“Why’d you think falling off your bunk was a smart-as-hell move when you’re too short to pass even as a goddamn Oompa Loompa?”

“That wasn’t an answer!”

“Instinct, man. You see something falling, you’ve gotta catch it. You see a person fall, you think ‘oh hell, if this fucker cracks his skull open it’s going to be harshing my mellow all day.’”

You gape. John snickers as he clambers from his bunk, “‘Harshing my mellow?’”

“But--” You start, as John jumps in.

“Okay, I think we should call it a day with this whole thing, right, Karkat? Right, Dave?”

“This dude--” Dave gestures to you “--has gotta learn some self-preservation, John. Safety 101. Anti-death techniques--”

“Dave, you don’t need to worry so much about Karkat! He has this weird tendency to do stupid things.” You simmer. “You’ve just gotta let him dig his own grave, and lie in it! It hasn’t killed him yet!” John cheerfully prattles. You don’t bother to point out how tactless his metaphor was, considering his argument.

Dave eyes you again.

“Someone should at least ship this sucker to the nurse.”

“Why?” John tilts his head, gaze flickering up and down your person. You shrink in on yourself in embarrassment-- John never really fully understood your ‘no extensive staring’ policy.

“Cracked his head at least twice in the last five minutes, man. Worst reenactment of Humpty Dumpty. Ever.” John playfully shoves Dave’s shoulder in response his joke, then moves over to tentatively prod you with a finger, concern etched on his face.

“Yeah, that’s probably smart. You should probably head over too, Dave, I bet your butt’s bruised from that fall.”

“Good to know that my butt’s well-being is always on your mind, Egbert.”

“A pal always has to have top-notch ass-awareness of his buddies. It’s like one of the first rules in the Friendship Manual.”

“Shit, guess I’ve got to read up on that again…”

You shake your head and stumble to the cabin’s door.

“What are you doing, Karkat?” John calls.

“This is me and _my_ sorry ass. Exiting this godforsaken establishment,” you flatly answer. You’re so fucking tired of today’s scatterbrained antics. Your temples are beating out their own painful, self-written drum solos.

“Guess that’s my cue,” Dave before moving towards the door.

“I’ll stick behind and finish unpacking all of our stuff,” John sheepishly waves.

“A’ight, catch you later,” Dave mutters back before sliding past you and heading outside. You try to send a quiet nod in John’s direction, but he’s already occupied with fiddling through Dave’s bag. Dejected, you take your leave.

Dave is already strolling up ahead, and you already know it’s within your best interests to stay behind for as long as possible. You trail him, making an effort whip your head around to seem as if you’re _not_ intentionally going in the same direction. You don’t want other campers getting any ideas. Whatever that implies.

For the first time today, you get to survey the camp you’ll regretfully be calling your place of residency for a week. Squat buildings with screen doors dot themselves throughout a wooded area; dappled sunlight intermittently shifts to smack you in the retinas. The ground has been covered with gravel that gives an incessant crunch as you walk. As the ground tapers into a hill covered in trampled grass, glancing down confirms the presence of a wide, blue-green lake sporting attractions such as a rope swing, slides, a boathouse for canoes and kayaks, and some strange, inflated monstrosity overshadowed by a towering platform. The sandy shore itself is lined with wooden benches and a fire pit. On the higher portion of the hill, a dining hall looms.

It looks like a non-airbrushed, rougher version of an imaginary place you’d see on a postcard.

You hate the generic pictures you see on postcards.

“So, what exactly were you trying to accomplish when you fell off that bunk, anyways?” Dave suddenly monotonously questions from your left side. You trip over your own feet in surprise, then snap to an upright stance, trying to pretend that no one witnessed that.

“I was hoping to put myself out of my own misery,” you eventually drawl back.

“Hah.” He says. “But remember next time to use the lower bunk as a footstool-- it’ll do wonders for you. And by extension, me. I ain’t going to try to catch you if you decide to do that again, no way, dude.” Dave gives a noncommittal shake of his head.

“Noted.”  

You reach a fork in your path; Dave automatically veers left, and you hesitantly follow.

“How are you meandering around the goddamn perimeter so confidently, blockhead?” You ask, allowing your painful conversation to prolong itself for the sake of your curiosity.

“My Bro’s a counselor. Our cabin’s counselor, to be exact. He drags me with him on his work weeks every year ‘cause admissions for counselors’ siblings are free. I’ve been around here often enough to know where I’m headed.”

“Technically it’s a good thing that your brother’s our counselor, right? It means he’ll be more lenient towards whatever bullshit’s inevitably going to happen in our cabin--”

“Nah, it means things are gonna be worse.” He leaves it at that. You slowly turn to look at him, stare, then rotate your head to its straightforward position when you know he’s not going to return your look. You walk in silence for a minute or two.

“How much more walking do we have before we get to the nurse’s office?” You break the momentary quietness.

“Eh, about a minute,” Dave points at a cabin that looks almost exactly like every other you’ve seen before, except this one is slightly elevated on a wooden platform.

“Thank fuck, if we had to stomp around in this heat for another five minutes, you’d be able to skewer me with a stick and slap a label on me reading ‘Rotisserie Meat.'”

“Something tells me you wouldn’t make a goddamn killing with that dish. Unless cannibalism is the hottest trend since Uggs and Snapchat.”

“You sure as hell aren’t Gordon Ramsey, so politely wander into the ‘Fuck Off’ zone in regards to my cuisine, Strider. John told me that you pretty much solely survive on microwave dinners and chips.”

“And John told me the only thing you’re somewhat decent at baking is pie, thanks to your shitclown friend; you’ve got practically no credentials either, partner.”

You have to fight down the twitching at the corner of your mouth. ‘ _You are not granting Dave the gift of a genuine smile. He’s still about as pleasant as a particularly bad case of crotchrot_ ,’ you tell yourself.

The porch creaks ominously as Dave rushes ahead and trounces up the stairs to the nurse’s office. You follow suit, with a significant amount of more caution. As you climb, you abruptly notice he hasn’t bothered to look your way to see if you’re following, not even once; if anything, he’s speeding up to put more space between you and him. It’s a subtle reminder that he really doesn’t give half a flea-infested rat’s ass about you in particular, he’s just doing this because John asked him to.  Call it ‘jumping to conclusions,’ or whatever, but you know better. You’re calling it ‘realistic.’ You hardly know this guy. He hardly knows you. Handcuffed together by a lovable dimwit, he’s taking the smart route and at least _trying_ to play nice when he has to, despite probably seeing you as irritating. Most people see you as irritating.

For some reason, this realization doesn’t piss you off, as it should. It just leaves you feeling hollow. This week could’ve been perfect for John and Dave, if you hadn’t kicked down the metaphorical door and rubbed your grimy hands all over their get-together. It explains why you’ve been third-wheeling it up more than a fucking tricycle in the past hour or two.

Well, now you can safely declare whatever slight mood enhancement you had received from your banter as deader than the coldest, deadest damn doorknob.

The screen door is already slamming shut as you reach the top of the steps. Reluctantly, you pull open the door and slip inside. You find Dave gesturing to you at the end of the entrance hallway. He points through the doorway to his left, then turns on his heel to stroll in, calling out a carefree, “Yo, Jane!”

With your new revelation in mind, you halt in place, then shuffle to lean against the wall to your right. A woman’s cheerful voice mingles with Dave’s drawl, but as they exchange pleasantries, you refuse to budge. They can come to you if they want, but you’re not moving a muscle for them. All you know for certain at the moment is that you’d prefer to be stuck out here rather than in there, playing pretend with Strider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [writes summer camp AU in the middle of autumn because time is an illusion and the entropy and chaos of the universe makes fools of us all]
> 
> anyways
> 
> pretty much all of this chapter was produced in a few hours so i'm SURE there's something funky with it but i just really wanted to post /something/, y'know?? sorry for such a dang delay between chapters, but there's not really a posting schedule here because life comes to my house to kick my ass with absolutely no warning at the strangest times, so i just write when i can D^:
> 
> finally, thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> where the hell did the urge to write this come from.... we just don't know.... but it's making it hella difficult to write that OTHER thing that really needs to be updated so dang i'm in trouble
> 
> anyways lo and behold, we've got ourselves a summer camp AU here... whoop.... 
> 
> that mention of a fanfiction karkat wrote? it's p much a reference to summerteen romance but also kind of not really?? i know i'm being confusing but that mention was a quick homage to that monstrosity. it's not going to be making many appearances throughout this fic though, so that's that.
> 
> for the record: there aren't going to be any races towards dating egbert that result in them hooking up or whatever-- both see him as a friend, not a boyfriend (regardless of attitudes in the past). so this is a friend fight, not a love triangle, folks. god knows they suck just as much to be stuck in, though. 
> 
> two more lil notes (i think, i might add more later but idk)  
> -sorry for typos and obvious mistakes, this is unbeta'd and i'm not looking for one so there are gonna be errors  
> -the title here is probably gonna change... it sounds so tacky but i'm at a loss of what else to call this
> 
> thanks so much for reading! C:


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